


We're Like a Really Small Gang

by CantSpeakFae



Series: The Wretched And Divine [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because they're all adorable, Bullying, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pocket Sized Disaster Children, Ripper's Gang but as nine-year-olds, but mostly just fluff, for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-15 10:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16060937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantSpeakFae/pseuds/CantSpeakFae
Summary: A local park in London is held in the iron fist of a tyrant. One who's about to be knocked out of his throne when a small band of his victims work together to take him down.ORModern AU where Ripper's gang meets in childhood and become best-friends and how that affects their eventual demon summoning.





	1. Rupert

Nine-year-old Rupert Giles wanted more than anything to believe that his family was just like every other one that lived on his street. It certainly seemed that way, by all appearances. They - that is, he, his father, and his gran - lived in a nice house, just like the rest of them. A house that was painted in the same two-tones of brown as every other, with a nice lawn and a pristinely painted fence. They had the same brick path leading from the steps to the street, just outside of the gate, and they had the same shape of mailbox. 

And, surely, he was just like all the other children that lived in these houses. Not much older or much younger; roughly months apart in age. And each child - well, at least the boys - seemed to have his same interests. They all liked playing footie or jacks on the sidewalks. They liked tossing paper airplanes and racing from one end of the street to the other, and he was sure a few of them even liked to read as he did.

But…

Well, no matter how much he  _ wanted _ to believe that his home was “normal” at that his family was just like everyone else, there was still that niggling doubt in the back of his mind. A doubt that, today, came from the shout of surprise from his father when his Gran, Edna, suddenly shot the bulb of the light above him and shattered the glass.

Rupert jumped, too, his book falling from his hands and his glasses sliding down his face. He scrambled to push them back up and surveyed the damage with wide eyes and mouth shaped in a perfect “O” of surprise. An expression that was mimicked perfectly by his father, though Ronald was quicker to composure and narrowed his eyes at Edna with a “harrumph” of displeasure, a sound that Rupert had come to associate with a smack to the head, and so he cowered in his corner.

“ _ Mother. _ ” Ronald snapped out, through clenched teeth. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Target practice. What’s it look like?” Edna asked, reloading her crossbow. “I  _ was _ aiming for that damned fly that keeps buzzing ‘round the fruit bowl, but I suppose my aim is a little rusty. Bah, don’t you give me that look, Ronald. There was a time when you’re old Mam would have shot the spot off of a Kroknac demon.”

“And yet, that time is not now.”

With a weary sigh, Ronald rose from his seat and wrested the crossbow from Edna’s hands, unloading it, and setting it aside carefully.

“You can’t just go about  _ shooting _ things. Especially not when the curtains are wide open!”

Rupert jumped at the nasty look Ronald sent in his direction and immediately drew the curtains shut, again, a sheepish expression on his face. He wouldn’t have normally had them open. It was just… well, he couldn’t pretend to not be watching the other children playing outside if he actually couldn’t see them. At least by having some kind of control of what he could and could not see, he’d waste less time imagining what was going on and have a little more focus.

Not a lot, though. The book that his father pushed into his hands is dreadfully boring. And his mind still tends to wander.

“Now, don’t make him shut those. Rupert needs some sunlight. He’s much too pasty.” Edna argued, slowly shifting in the direction of the crossbow, again, her blue eyes trained on the fly that’s still buzzing about, unharmed by the first bolt she’d fired.

“The boy is fine. Don’t touch that crossbow again.”

“Fine. I won’t. But only if  _ you _ send Rupert outside to play. It’s not right; keeping a child that young cooped up in front of stacks of dusty old books. You certainly wouldn’t have ever sat still for this at his age.”

Ronald couldn’t quite suppress his eye roll at Edna’s words… or his scowl when he turned to look at Rupert, staring at him as though trying to figure out if or how he could have put Edna up to this. After a long moment, he seems to decide this whole thing was the work of his mother’s mind, only, and sighed.

“...Go.” He said, tonelessly, turning to grab the crossbow again.

Rupert cast an uncertain look at Edna. Could he really…?

Gran winked at him and he was up in a flash. Darting too quickly for Ronald to yell at him for running in the house and grabbing his coat from the hanger in the closet while he simultaneously shoved his feet into his shoes.

“Be back before -”

SLAM.

Rupert’s already firmly shut the door behind him before he can catch the last part of Ronald’s sentence. But it doesn’t matter - nothing in the house can bother him out here. He’s free! No more books, no more quiet. No more stuffy air or bizarre drawings of demons whose names he has trouble pronouncing. He can do whatever he wants for a few hours. He can even play with -

He skids to a halt just before the gate, his brain finally catching up with the rest of his body and his hand freezes just before pushing through to the street. The group of boys continue on with their games, without ever noticing that he’s stepped out.

They seem… taller when he’s outside. Louder, too. And he realizes that he doesn’t know any of their names. Should he ask to join? Would they let him? Do they know who he is, or do they think he’s the weird boy who only reads in the window and watches them play?

Rupert’s heart sinks in his chest and all of his courage slides back down, like an ice cube slipping down to his stomach. He pushes on, past the gate, but he doesn’t look over at the group of boys. Doesn’t call out to them. Doesn’t ask to play. Instead, he follows the fences.

There’s a place to go when you don’t have any ideas. And that’s his last resort.

 

* * *

 

The park is a twenty-minute walk from his home, but it’s mostly a straight-shot there and Rupert hums to himself along the way, making the minutes tick by just a bit faster with forced cheer. It’s mostly deserted this time of day. The bright light of the afternoon is waning to the softer touch of dusk and most people have moved on home, though a few people are still around. A girl with her long, dark hair in twin braids practices her flute in the field, while a boy flies his kite. Another boy is on the swings, his stomach pressed down against the seat and he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. 

Rupert wonders if he should approach any of them. Maybe introduce himself. Gran is always saying his ought to make more friends… but the words die in his throat before he can even completely form them and he takes off on his own, heading to the jungle gym.

He likes climbing on it. He doesn’t have much upper body strength - as his father is always pointing out to him - and has never been able to get all the way to the top without suddenly feeling dizzy at the height of it, but he tries to get a little farther every time.

He approaches it with a carefully composed expression. Trying to make every motion seem absent-minded and effortless, just in case one of the other kids are watching. He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself.

He climbs up the metal ladder and grabs onto the monkey bars that lead to the bigger part of the metal contraption. He swings himself across, bar by bar, legs flailing wildly. He makes it with just a little ache in the palms of his hand and in his fingers.

But then comes the big challenge. 

The large part of the jungle gym is complicated. He really only has to climb  _ up _ to make it to the top, but the height makes his head spin before he’s even tried it. 

He considers jumping back down. He’s not too high up, now. Could play it off like he just got bored. 

But, no. 

He doesn’t have anything else to do. He might as well try. 

So, he leans forward and grabs onto the nearest bar. Slowly starting his descent up. Hands up to grab the next bar, first, before he dares to try and lift his feet. He keeps on like that, slowly, swallowing hard against the fear in his throat. 

He can’t be scared. 

There’s nothing  _ to  _ be afraid of.

He gets a little higher. 

His hands are sweating. He tries to wipe them off on his pants, but the sensation of letting go of the bar makes his heart jump into his throat, so he quickly grabs it again. Looks like this as far as he’s going to get, today. Any higher and he might faint. So, he twists as carefully as he can and takes a seat against the bar. Just watching. Pretending that he’s not holding on so tight that his knuckles are turning white. 

A breeze picks up, ruffling his hair. 

“Hey, you’re really up here, huh?” 

Rupert jumps at the unexpected voice, turning to see that someone else has followed his path and is now climbing to sit just next to him on the bars. Rupert’s never seen him before, but it doesn’t take more than one look to know that he’s older. Eleven or twelve, maybe. And he’s definitely not afraid of the jungle gym; he’s only climbing with one hand. 

“Uh… I suppose so.” Rupert says, faintly, in response. 

Part of him wants to climb back down. Immediately. He doesn’t know how to talk to older kids. But another part of him - a softer, more excitable part - is  _ thrilled _ that someone approached him first. Maybe this could be a new friend? 

“I’ve never seen a little kid climb this high. Congratulations.” The older boy says, stretching the word out as wide as his grin. He has the sort of smile that’s reminiscent of “the cat that ate the canary”. Rupert’s genuinely surprised that there are no yellow feathers sticking out between his teeth. 

“Thank you,” Rupert says, his voice still wavering with uncertainty. 

“You’re welcome.” 

A beat of silence. Then -

“Now, get off.”

“I’m sorry?” Rupert said, as politely as he can. 

“This is my jungle gym, kid.” The boy says, slowly. Enunciating every word. “And I don’t need any snot-nosed babies drooling all over it. Get off.” 

A flash of temper flares up in Rupert. 

“This is  _ not _ your jungle gym.” He says, firmly. “It belongs to the park.” 

“Yeah? Well, I own the park.” 

“You do not!” 

“Prove it.” 

Rupert opened his mouth… and then shut it again, staring at the boy with confusion. How was he supposed to prove that? It was common knowledge that it’s a public park. Just like it’s common knowledge that air is good and water feels wet. You don’t argue for those things. It’s just… known.

The older boy smiles victoriously. 

“See? You can’t, can you? If you can’t, then go away.” 

Rupert considers arguing. But he’s starting to get cold and he’s just a little bit miserable that this encounter was not what his hopes for it had been. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Older kids were always mean. 

He starts to shift, but his path is blocked. 

“I can’t get past you.” 

“So?”

“ _ So _ ,” Rupert says, stressing the word. How could anyone be this dense? “I can’t get off of the jungle gym if I can’t get past you.” 

“You can jump.” 

Rupert’s stomach does a flip at the thought. Jump? No, he can’t do that. He’s up way too high.

“Just let me past and I’ll get down.” He says, again, with a little more force. 

“I said, jump.” 

“I am  _ not _ going to - ACK!” 

Rupert didn’t get the chance to finish that thought. With a tremendous amount of force, he was suddenly shoved back off of the bars he’d been clinging to and sent tumbling to the ground. Miraculously, he landed unscathed. No worse for the wear with just a rumpled jumper and his heart pounding in his chest. 

For a second, he thinks he may cry out of fear. 

But he doesn’t. 

His throat tightens at the sound of the older boy’s laughter, but he doesn’t dare cry. 

“See? Was that so hard?” The boy asked, jumping down himself. He landed next to Rupert and then shoved him hard, nearly knocking him back down to the ground. “Stay off of that. Understand?” 

And then he’s gone. Stalking off in a different direction; probably to terrorize someone else. 

Rupert rubs the back of his neck, heat rising into his face.

 

He  _ hates  _ bullies. 


	2. Ethan

Nine-year-old Ethan Rayne had been sitting in the tree in the corner of the park for the last twenty minutes, watching the cars that wheeze and stutter as they turn the corner of the street. Just waiting. A fly buzzed by his head and he absently waved his hand in a “Shoo!” motion, trying to disturb its planned course into his face without completely knocking himself out of the tree. He’d done that, before, and the resulting sprained ankle kept him inside for weeks with his elderly aunt Matilda fussing over him and making him drink her most ghastly of teas as a “remedy”. 

Ethan doesn’t like many things. But he hates nothing quite so much as he does spending time with his aunt.

He supposes that it isn’t really her fault. She’s his father’s aunt - his great-aunt technically - and she, with her greying hair, wrinkled fingers, and poor vision, just wasn’t meant to be in charge of anything. Least of all a child. And things would get better when his father came back to get him like he promised he would.

But, until then, he was stuck doing things like this to make time pass.

There’s a blue dot down the street. Slowly inching closer. Ethan’s heart jumped into his throat and his stomach did a flip. Is that the one he’d been waiting for? It looked like it - the car that belongs to Matthew Watterson’s father. The boy who had been taunting Ethan about his appearance. It was true that Ethan was thin and gangly, with feet and ears too big for his body that Aunt ‘Tilda insisted he’d grow into. But the taunting wouldn’t stop until then and he was out for some revenge.

His hand went to the little, dingy bag that had once been a small pillowcase and reached inside for one of the water balloons that he’d filled with glitter and paint. He cupped its weight in his hand, tossing it up into the air once - almost dropping it - and catching it at the last second with a nearly feral grin on his lips.

He waited until it’s closer, just about to pass him by, and then threw it as hard as he could. It sailed through the air… but landed just short, falling onto the grass and splattering on impact.

The car sped by, unharmed.

“Oh, bloody -”

“Hey.”

Ethan craned his head as someone interrupted his complaining, and saw a tall boy with a wide smile staring back up at him.

“What?” Ethan asked, scowling.

“I saw what you were trying to do to that car.” The older boy said, still peering up at him with that smile. “Not bad. But, you might want to work up to something like that. Start smaller.”

“Who asked you?” Ethan sneered, but there’s a bit of curiosity underlying his tone.

“Hey, I’m just someone who knows talent when he sees it. I think I could help you. Show you easier targets.”

Well…

Ethan did have a lot of water balloons on hand, and apparently not enough arm strength to launch them at passing cars. It’d be a waste of the effort it took to fill them with paint and glitter. And there is some use in making nice with an older kid. If he helped him with this, maybe the older boy can also beat up Matthew sometime. So, his lips quirked in consideration and then he shimmied down the tree with the bag clenched between his teeth. It made his jaw hurt, but it was worth it when he made it all the way down without any casualties.

“What sort of targets?” Ethan asked… already regretting having climbed out of the three. He’d known the boy was taller than him, but he hadn’t realized just how much taller he was until he was on the ground.

“Little kids.” The older boy said, conversationally. He snagged the bag from Ethan’s grasp, breaking his hold with ease. He peered into the bag. “They’re not that fast and easier to hit than a car.”

Ethan frowned as he considered that. Sure, he could pelt toddlers with them, but where’s the challenge in that? Where’s the -

SPLAT.

Ethan’s train of thought was viciously derailed by the sudden explosion of paint and glitter that splattered on his face. He gasped and coughed, spitting out a mouthful of purple and frantically wiped at his eyes while the older boy laughed maniacally.

“See?” He asked, still choking with laughter. “That’s much easier target! Thanks for the balloons.”

Still chortling, he turned around and walked off, clutching the prize that he had wrested from Ethan’s hands and leaving Ethan to scrub at his face with the clean fabric of his shirt, trying to get all of the paint off.

He clenched his teeth against a scream that threatens to build up in his throat.

That double-crossing, no good, bloody -

 

Oh, Ethan will make him  _ regret _ that.


	3. Deidre

Nine-year-old Deirdre Page got in trouble earlier that morning. 

Before she’d even been able to settle down for Saturday morning cartoons, she was in trouble. With her father, who wants her to learn to play the flute. But Deirdre  _ hates _ the flute. She hates the way her arms start to cramp when she holds it up to her mouth. She hates how cold the metal is against her lips. She hates the pitchy noises it makes, like a dying bird, when she blows too hard. She hates that she has to re-adjust her fingers to make different sounds. And she especially hates how hard it is to clean.

She never wanted to play the flute. When her father told her that he wanted to her to learn an instrument, she’d asked if she could learn to play guitar. But he’d insisted that wasn’t an instrument for girls and signed her up for the flute without another word.

That’s another thing she hates - her father  _ never  _ listens to her.

That’s how she’d gotten in trouble, that morning. She’d been telling him over and over again that it was Saturday and Saturdays aren’t meant for flute lessons or math homework or any of those annoying things that he wanted to do before she’d even finished breakfast. But he only talked over her and kept adding to the list.

The breaking point was demanding that she practice the flute.

Because, hello? She hates the flute. It’s a stupid instrument played by stupid people like her flute instructor, Mr. Meeks.

That was not the right thing to say, apparently, because she’d been promptly expelled from the house with nothing but her light summer coat - it’s almost fall now, she needs something  _ bigger _ \- and her flute case, and instructions to go to the park and practice until her attitude was better.

Her attitude is never going to get better, though. And neither will the noises that she makes with her flute, blowing too hard with a reddened face and angry tears in her eyes. Some people wince as they walk past her, shaking their heads at the sour notes that she forces out of the delicate instrument. Nicer people smile uneasily and pretend that it doesn’t hurt their ears.

But Deirdre knows it does.

And she blows sharper to make their smiles go away. She’ll make everyone hate the flute as much as she does. She’ll get it  _ banned _ in London, and that’ll show her father.

Until then, she’ll just have to settle with upsetting everyone else in the park until they’re as mad as she is.

At least, she will when her arms stop hurting. She lowers the flute back from her mouth and flops to the ground, sitting down against the grass and watching gloomily as a boy flies a kite nearby. He’d been smiling at her when he walked past with his kite and his smile hadn’t gone away no matter how hard she blew into the flute or how sharp the sounds she made were.

That was annoying.

Even more annoying was how much fun he seemed to be having with his kite. She wondered if her father would let her have a kite or if it - like the guitar, footie, and playing in the dirt - were for boys, only. She bet no one ever told kite-boy that he couldn’t do something he wanted to, because it was too rough or messy.

“Hey.”

Deirdre’s attention was pulled away from the kite whipping in the wind and she turned her head, just in time to see an older, white boy coming to a halt beside her, lugging an old pillowcase. He smiled at her and Deidre lifted up her flute like a weapon. It’s not very heavy, but she thinks it’ll hurt if she hits him hard enough in the shins with hit.

“Go away.” She said, flatly, trying not to let her voice shake.

Deidre’s Persian. Her parents are from France, but her grandparents lived in Iran... She doesn’t understand why that’s important; she just knows that people see that and get mean. She’s had older boys pull on her dark hair, and call her father evil. And she doesn’t feel like smiling politely or just walking away, like she’s always told to.

She’ll hit this boy with this stupid flute. She really will.

“Aw, come on. I just wanted to see if you’d play that, for me.” He said, politely, inclining his head in the direction of the instrument that she was currently wielding like a bat. “I heard you earlier. I thought you were really good.”

“You did not,” Deidre said, holding the flute a little higher. “Go away.”

“I did so.” The boy said, staying put. “Do you know any songs?”

“...I can play hot-cross buns.” She said, still eyeing him warily. “Why do you have a pillowcase?”

“Just cause.”

The boy took a step closer. Deidre took a step back and glanced in the direction of kite-boy. He’s focused on the sky, but he might hear her if she screamed. She doesn’t like the look of this boy, the one with the pillowcase, and her heart thuds unevenly in her chest. Like a hammer against cloth.

“Will you play that for me?” He asked, softly.

“No,” Deidre said. 

“What if I say please?”

“No.”

“Well, then do you want to play a game?”

“ _ No, _ ” Deidre said, stressing the word, and stomping her foot into the ground. She snapped open her flute case and pulled the instrument to pieces, putting them into the case and snapping it back shut in record time. “Leave me alone.”

“You  _ do _ want to play a game.” The boy said, anyway, much to Deidre’s increasing annoyance. Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to her?

The boy reached into his pillowcase and pulled out… a balloon? It sagged in his grasp like it was filled with something heavier than air and Deirdre held her flute case to her chest, eyeing him suspiciously.

“It’s a really easy game.” The boy said, his tone still friendly. “See? I have these balloons. They’re full of paint.”

He suddenly threw the balloon at the ground. It exploded on impact and red paint splattered, getting on the hem of her dress and on her shoes.

“And you run and I throw them at you. Easy, right?”

“HEY!” She screeched, skittering back away from him and looking down at the paint on her dress and shoes, her face going as red as the paint. “That was mean!”

“I’ll throw them even if you don’t run.” The boy said, quietly, ignoring her outrage.

Deidre didn’t need a second hint.

She turned on her heel and  _ ran _ , as fast as she could. The boy let out a whooping cry behind her, immediately on the chase. His legs were longer than hers and he didn’t have the crushing vice of fear to tighten around his throat, and Deidre could feel him hot on her tail in just a few seconds.

The second balloon sailed over her head and struck the boy who’d been flying the kite. It splattered against the side of his head, green paint and glitter going everywhere. He sputtered for a moment and Deidre nearly stopped to help him… but a third balloon had already been launched and struck her back, splattering yellow on her coat and down the exposed fabric of her dress.

Kite-boy wisely abandoned his kite when he realized what was going on and ran, too. Next to Deidre, without saying a word, to the denser part of the thicket of trees that the park was home to. And then, still without saying anything, he suddenly yanked Deidre down and into a bush, ducking down with her between branches, leaves, and bugs.

She settled down into the dirt, getting mud on her clothes alongside the paint, glitter, and tears. She’d started crying without realizing, either out of fear or anger. It was hard to tell with her heart beating so fast and her lungs hurting from breathing so hard.

The older boy ran past, oblivious to their hiding spot.

And kite-boy looked over at her. 

“...Hi!” He said, too cheerfully for someone who had paint on the side of his face. “I’m Philip.” 

She’s still breathing hard. “I’m...Deidre.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Philip said, holding out his hand for her to shake. He smiled when she did. Too brightly. “Was that a friend of yours? You guys play weird games.”

Deidre stared at him.

“...Philip are you dumb?” 

“Sometimes,” Philip said, quite seriously.

And Deidre decided that she hated him, too. 

 

Maybe  _ more _ than she hated the flute.


	4. Philip

Incidentally, nine-year-old Philip Henry was not the chosen target of the bully that was terrorizing the playground. He might have been standing in that field, unbothered for hours, never struck by a balloon full of paint or forced to run for his life from a large, primally aggressive thirteen-year-old if Deidre Page hadn’t been practicing her flute near where he was flying his kite. And not for any obvious reason. Philip was just as easy a target as the others - the same age, same height, same lack of understanding when a big kid was a friend and when they were a threat - perhaps even a little easier, because Phil had always been an overeager, over helpful child that volunteered first for everything.

But he just hadn’t been on the bully’s map. Might have never been had paint drying to his face if it hadn’t been Deidre.

And yet, he still really wanted to be her friend.

“I’m glad you’re not friends with that guy.” He said, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve. Dried paint flaked off and dusted the ground. “He seemed mean.”

Deirdre rolled her eyes. “ _ Seemed _ mean? He hit you with a balloon full of paint.”

Phil shrugged and gave up on trying to wipe his face clean. His sleeve shimmered with paint flakes and he brushed it off against the dirt. He couldn’t possibly explain to Deirdre why he didn’t think that only _ seemed _ mean. But, truth was, Phil had three older brothers and he could see any one of them doing this to him. Not to strangers, of course, but to him as the kid brother, they might throw paint-filled balloons.

“Do you think he’s gone?”

Deirdre shifted against the ground and peeked out from the bush. Philip watched her, sure that the older boy was gone - maybe bothering other kids. He hoped so. Not because he wanted to be left alone, but because his leg was starting to fall asleep and he didn’t like the fuzzy feeling it got; like a telly without any signal.

“I don’t know,” Deirdre said, finally. She was still whispering. “It’s quiet out there, though. Maybe -”

Philip was already jumping to his feet at the “it’s quiet”, stretching and looking around. Nothing but trees and the sunlight that streamed through the leaves. It was going to be getting dark in a couple hours and he wasn’t going to spend his entire day hiding from the teenager.

“Great.” He said, cheerfully. “I’m going to go get my kite. Do you want to try flying it?”

Deirdre scowled up at him.

“You’re going to stand back out there? But he still has those balloons.”

“Yeah, and I still have a kite,” Phil said, with a little shrug. “Plus, it’s going to be dark soon and I won’t be able to fly it again until next weekend. That’s a whole seven days away.”

Deirdre got to her feet, too, but still looked like she thought it was a bad idea. Though, even a bad idea was better than being left alone so she nodded once and started to follow after him, away from the trees and back to the open field. It seemed like a much longer walk, now that they weren’t running for their lives, but soon they were standing right back in the spot where they had been, before, as made evident by the paint splatters in the grass and the indents where Philip had been standing.

But his kite was nowhere to be seen.

“I… I left it right here.” He said, his smile slipping for the first time since he’d gotten to the park. He spun around in a circle, looking for any sign of the dragonfly-shaped thing he’d been flying through the air. But there was nothing. No wooden handle. No long string. No sheer plastic that whipped and waved through the sky. Just… nothing.

“Maybe the wind took it?” Deirdre asked, trying to sound sympathetic to his plight, but Philip could see that she was still looking around, expecting the bully to come back.

“It couldn’t have!” Philip argued, his lower lip jutting out into a pout. “The handle was heavy so that it couldn’t…” 

Philip’s eyes suddenly stung and his face felt hot. His throat tightened and he had to swallow hard to keep from crying. His father gave him that kite. He wasn’t around, much, but he always brought presents when he could. How was he supposed to face him, next time, and tell him that he lost his present?

“I know what happened to it.” 

A quiet voice called out, taking them both by surprise. Deirdre and Philip turned in unison, just in time to see a tall, gangly boy with large ears, dark hair, and a painted face creeping up to them. Philip had never seen him before, but Deirdre’s eyes lit up with recognition. 

“Hey, I know you!” She said, accusingly. She took half a step forward and the strange boy took half a step back in response. “You’re Ethan Rayne! You live on my street...and you put spiders in my dollhouse when I left it outside!”

“I did not!” Ethan said, looking ridiculously pleased for someone who was denying an accusation. “And you can’t prove it, anyway… but I think whoever did do that has an underappreciated sense of humour and maybe you just didn’t get the joke.”

“I’ll give  _ you _ a joke!” Deirdre said, raising her flute case like a weapon, but Philip pulled it back down.

“Wait.” He said, ignoring the furious look she gave him in return. “You… you know what happened to my kite, Ethan?”

“I do.” He said, nodding his head. “The boy with the balloons took it.”

“You know about him?” Deirdre asked, while Philip whipped his head around like he might be able to  _ see _ the bully flying his kite somewhere nearby. “I guess that explains why your face is that colour.”

“Know about him?” Ethan asked, outraged. “He  _ stole _ those balloons from me. I practically created him!”

“Those were your balloons?! Why did you have paint balloons?”

“I was throwing them at cars.”

“Why would you -”

“Shhh!” Philip interrupted, stopping Deirdre’s outrage in its tracks. “Did you see where he went? I need my kite back.”

“No, I didn’t,” Ethan said, still looking grumpy. “But I think we could find him. I want my balloons back, anyway.”

“And I want to kick him,” Deirdre added, with a huff of air. “But how do we find him?”

“He’s probably bothering some other kid by now,” Ethan said. “And there aren’t many of them here. I’ve been looking around. One on the swings, and a couple of people by the duck pond. If we can find him, we’ll outnumber him. You two can distract him and I’ll grab the balloons.”

“Why do  _ we  _ have to distract him?” Deirdre asked. “Scared, Ethan?”

“No. I just run fast.” Ethan said, looking down at the ground.

Philip wouldn’t blame him for being scared if he was. But he didn’t say so. Instead, he just squared his shoulders.

“It’s three of us versus him… and I  _ need _ my kite back. He won’t know what hit him.” Philip agreed.

A yell rang out, nearby.

“I bet he’s that way.” Ethan said, smartly, pointing in the direction that the shriek had come from.

 

They took off running, a trifecta of angry kids out for vengeance. 


	5. Thomas

“Are you okay?” 

Nine-year-old Thomas Sutcliffe is lying face-down in the sand, next to the swingset, when he hears someone ask him that question. And it takes a considerable amount of personal strength not to roll his eyes while he’s still lying against the earth. He shifts, feeling sand sticking to his face, and starts to sit upright, wiping it back from his eyes and coming face-to-face with a girl with dark hair and even darker eyes.

He flinches back, startled.

“Jeeze, Deirdre, you scared him.” A familiar voice jeered.

Thomas turned his head… and immediately rolled his eyes. Ethan Rayne. Of course. They go to the same school. That was the boy who put frozen beetles in the prize box that their teacher kept on hand. They’d thawed out and started moving a few hours later, causing classroom-wide panic when Roxane Sparks was told she could pick a present for volunteering to help pass out papers. Why  _ wouldn’t _ he be here, now, after Thomas was thrown off of a swing and pelted with a red-paint filled balloon?

“Ow,” Thomas muttered, rubbing at his elbow. He’d hit the ground pretty hard on the way down.

“Is that paint or blood?” Another voice asked. Thomas didn’t recognize that boy.

“It’s paint, Philip,” Deirdre said, rolling her eyes and skittering back a few paces as Thomas rose to his feet, clearly satisfied that he hadn’t been killed.

“It’s paint.” Thomas echoed, sniffing at some of the red on the back of his hand. “He threw something at me from behind after he pushed me off of swingset. I didn’t see what it was. It-”

“It was a water balloon,” Philip said, pointing to his own face, where a stain of paint was still visible. 

“It was  _ my _ water balloons,” Ethan muttered.

...Thomas hates the park. 

He must be the only person his age who does. Most kids run wild out here; jumping from toy to toy, spinning circles and turning cartwheels in the field. Most kids didn’t notice how cold it gets when the sun starts to sink in the distance or the bugs that crawl all over anything. They don’t notice how creaky the jungle gyms are or that some of them smell like pee where a four-year-old decided they couldn’t wait until they got home. 

But, most of all, he hated the teenagers that roamed around and picked on everyone littler than them.

“ _ You _ gave him the water balloons?” Thomas asked, rounding on Ethan.

“No!” Ethan said, looking unreasonably offended for the culprit behind the frozen-beetle-incident. “He stole them from me.”

Thomas opened his mouth to shout at him, but Deirdre interrupted him.

“Don’t ask. We were just coming over here to get Philip’s kite back...and to hit that guy with my flute case.” Deirdre said. “We thought he’d still be here.”

“Sorry to disappoint…” Thomas said, rubbing the back of his neck. There’s paint-splattered there, too. “So, you’re going to hit him with a flute case?”

“Among other things.” Ethan said, at the same time that Philip muttered, “If we can catch him.”

“...Can I help?”

It wasn’t as though Thomas had anything else to do. He was here until one of his parents got off of work and sometimes they didn’t get here until dark. At least he could pass the time pelting that jerk with his own water balloons.

The three of them exchanged a look.

“...What do you have to offer the team?” Ethan asked.

Deirdre elbowed him.

“If you promise to hold his legs when I hit him with the flute case, you can join.”

“...Deal.”

“Great!” Deirdre said, turning to look at look over at Ethan again. “So, swing set was a bust. Where did you say the other kids were?”

“Duck Pond,” Ethan said, turning his head in that direction. “But it’s a long shot… there’s another teenager over there and a few parents milling about. He might just go home.”

Philip’s expression turned dire.

“He can’t go home! He has my kite!”

“We can check the pond, ” Deirdre interjected. "And if he's not there..." 

"He better be there." Philip finished, darkly. 

Thomas pursed his lips. 

"You guys seem fun."


	6. Randall

“Okay, Randall. One more handful, and then we’re going home.”

“What?! But, Alice…”

Randall Evan’s protesting whine died on his lips at the sight of the glower that his older sister, Alice, was giving him. It was strangely mother-like in its exasperated affection and Randall’s shoulders slumped. There was no point in arguing with her. Even if he thought he could _win_ an argument with her, she was twice his size and would just pick him up and carry him back home if she had to.

She had, before. It was...embarrassing.

So, Randall shook the bag of oats that he had in his hand and looked around for the right clump of ducks to toss it into.

Feeding the ducks with Alice was his favourite thing to do. The park that they walked to wasn’t very big, but it was peaceful and far away from home; where Mamma shouted incoherent nonsense at things only she could see and Randall’s father locked himself away in his study without paying any attention to what was going on. Out here, it was easy for Randall to pretend that they _had_ no parents and that it was just the two of them. He read books like that, sometimes, where the children were orphaned and sometimes even thought that he and Alice could make a home in an abandoned boxcar, just like his favourite series.

Alice told him more than once that it was a bad idea. But Randall’s only nine and he’s allowed to dream.

Except for right now. Right now, he’s just supposed to be throwing a last handful of oats to the fuzzy little ducklings swimming in the pond, without stepping too close to the edge. The water’s not very deep, right at the bank, but Alice made him promise not to go to close as long as he couldn’t swim.

He reaches into the bag and grabs onto a handful of the oats, taking a tentative step closer and glancing back at Alice.

“One more.” She says, again, not at all swayed by his pout.

He started to pulls his hand back out of the bag, reluctant to throw the last handful and end the day…

And then the phone in Alice’s pocket started ringing.

Randall turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.

“...That the emergency phone.” Randall said, stating the obvious.

Alice slowly pulled it from her pocket, looking a little guilty.

“...It is.”

“We’re only supposed to use that to call Da.”

And he never calls them. He doesn’t usually notice if they’re home or not. So, who’s calling?

“It’s probably just a wrong number. But I should answer it...to let them know that it’s wrong.” She said, taking half a step back and flipping the phone open. “You can keep throwing handfuls until I’m done telling them so. Okay?”

Clearly sure that’ll appease Randall, Alice starts to lean back...and then bolts to the edge of the path, answering the phone with a smile too bright to be for a wrong number.

“...Alice has a boyfriiiiiiend.” Randall sings, under his breath, with a smile of his own. Oh, he’ll be pestering her about that forever. Or, at least, until she tells him what’s going on.

Until then, he’ll feed the ducks.

He throws a handful of oats out into the pond, watching them. Each one dives for the oats, for whatever was closest, battling each other for it. Even the ducklings - fuzzy and soft - bit each other and then dipped their heads into the water to snap up some of them and they’d be going for another beakful before they’d even swallowed the first.

He threw another handful of oats into the water. And then another, listening to the happy quacking...and disgruntled sounds of ducks who was beaten out for a mouthful of oats. He absent-mindedly mimicked the sound, under his breath.

“Quack… quack, quack.” He said.

He heard a little laugh behind him and turned, jumping slightly at how close an unfamiliar face was to him.

“Oh, sorry!” The stranger said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender when Randall flinched back. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just...trying to get a closer look at the ducks.”

Randall’s face suddenly felt hot and he realized he was blushing. This boy was much taller than him… and standing really close.

“It’s - it’s okay.” He said.

“Oh, good.” He said, with a smile. “You like the ducks, huh?”

“Sure…”

Randall twisted his head. Alice was still talking on the phone, twirling a lock of hair around her finger and staring at the ground. She wasn’t paying any attention to them.

“I mean, yeah. I guess.”

“I do, too.” The older boy said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a handful of oats, himself. He tossed them to the left, watching the ducks swim in that direction for the oats.

Randall’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. He stayed very still as the older boy helped himself to the oats and then tossed them to the side.

Silence fell between them for a few seconds and Randall felt paralyzed, unsure how he feels about the boy looming over him. He couldn’t be much older than Alice… but that didn’t mean he’d be as nice as her. Even if it was hard to think anyone feeding ducklings could be _mean_.

“You know what I like about ducks?” He asked.

Randall shook his head no.

“They can fly _and_ swim.”

He took another handful from Randall’s bag, tossing them out further.

“Don’t you wish you could?”

“...I guess.”

He’s standing _really_ close. Randall starts to shift away, but he doesn’t get far.

“Here, let me make that happen. As a way of saying thanks for sharing your oats with me.”

Randall yelped as he’s grabbed by his shirt and lifted up and off of the ground. He doesn’t have a chance to tell him not to throw him in, because he’s already being tossed through the air and landing in the water with a splash.

He panicked on impact. There’s water all around him. It’s cold and murky and even though his mother is nowhere near him, he can _feel_ her hands around his neck, holding him down, and he can _hear_ her praying.

He freezes up. He doesn’t move, just goes limp and sinks the bottom.

Someone grabs his shirt after a few seconds and drags him out of the water.

The water is shallow and the bank isn’t far from where he landed. He coughs as soon as he’s pulled onto land and blinks the water from his eyes, looking up and expecting to see Alice’s panicked expression hovering over him.

She’s not who he sees, though. Its someone else.

“Are you okay?”

Randall just shivers, sitting upright. He’s glad he held his breath on impact because he’s coughed up water, before, and it always hurts.

“Hey.” The other boy, the one who pulled him from the water, says again. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” Randall lies, through chattering teeth. It’s gotten cold out, and the water soaked through his clothes doesn’t help. The only thing warm are the tears that suddenly sting his eyes, embarrassment making his throat feel tight.

He turns his head away and looks around for Alice. He can see her in the distance… she’s walked around to the other side of the tree she’d been leaning against, lost in her conversation. She doesn’t seem to have noticed what happened, yet.

“...I’m Rupert.” The other boy offers, sounding uncertain of what to say. “I erm...I saw that boy throw you in. How come you didn’t get back up?”

“...I can’t swim.”

“Oh.”

Randall finally turned his head back, getting a better look at Rupert, the kid who saved him from drowning. He didn’t look like he was much older than Randall, and seemed to be just as uncertain about the situation.

He should probably introduce himself back to him, right? It’s only fair.

“I’m Randall.”

Rupert nodded, seeming a little encouraged.

“It’s nice to - Ethan?”

Rupert tilted forward, looking past Randall. His face lit up at the sight of another group of nine-year-olds… or at least, it lit up seeing one of them in particular. He jumped up to his feet and started forward. But, only to skitter back when one of the boys punched at the air.

“Aw, man!” He said, passionately. “Did we miss him? Did he have my kite?!”

“Or my balloons?” The boy called Ethan chimed in, while waving at Rupert.

“Who?” Rupert asked, looking puzzled.

“The… the teenager! The one who pushed me off the swings.”

“And chased us through the field, throwing paint-filled balloons at us.”

“He stole my kite.”

“He stole _my_ balloons.”

“We were going to kick him.”

“Some of us were going to kick him. Others just want our kites back.”

Randall shakily rose to his feet, still dripping water. Well, it was nice to know he wasn’t the only one who was having a rough day. Just the most recent.

“Oh, him.”

Rupert’s smile vanished.

“He pushed me off of the jungle gym. And he threw Randall, here, into the water.”

Five pairs of eyes flickered to Randall’s face. Waiting for him to contribute.

“...He also fed the ducks.” Randall said, softly, unsure of what else to say. “I think he took the oats I’d been using. I didn’t see where he went, because I was in the water.”

“And I was pulling him out of the water.”

Rupert gestured to his trousers, where he was wet up to the knee.

“Well, great!” Ethan said, clapping his hands together. “You can help us track him down and get revenge with us.”

“I can’t.” Randall said, shaking his head. His wet curls whipped against his face. “I gotta go home. My - Alice is going to see me all wet and she’ll know I was in the water and she’ll get mad and we’ll _have_ to go home.”

“...Well, I guess we don’t _need_ you.” Ethan said, already glossing over his absence, but the girl kicked him.

“We do so. Six against one is way better odds...and if anyone deserves revenge, it’s the kid who was thrown in the pond.” She said, with a note of finality in her tone.

“Yeah, but if he _has_ to go…”

“I have an idea.” Rupert ventured. He cast a glance at Randall… and then started forward, jumping into the water as far out as Randall had been, splashing around for a second and then climbing back out so that he was completely soaked. “We can tell her it rained now. But only for a minute.”

The rest of the group exchanged looks. And, as they were all nine-years-old, this was exactly the logical conclusion they were ready to accept. But no one was quite ready to act on it until Ethan, unwilling to be upstaged by Rupert, dove in next.

One by one, they each climbed into the water. Some of them frantically scrubbed paint from their faces and hands, others dipped in real quick and clambered back out just as fast, sloshing and waddling as wet denim rode up on them.

“I don’t think this is going to make her less mad,” Randall said, doubtfully, but Rupert only nudged him as he shook out his hair.

“It better.” He said, trying to dry his glasses with a wet shirt. “We already got wet.”


	7. Alice

Thirteen-year-old Alice Ricci still had a dreamy smile on her face by the time she started to walk back to where she’d left Randall to his ducks. There was a spring in her step, and even a new shine to her hair when her dark curls bounced into her face. A giddiness making her heart thump unevenly in her chest...a feeling completely unwarranted by how awkward that phone-call conversation had been.

She had no idea what she’d been thinking when she gave that boy her number. He was two-years older than her - fifteen! - and so completely gorgeous that her mind that blanked when he’d come up to speak to her at the little cafe she’d been sitting at with her friends after school. She’d completely forgotten that this cheap, little phone was only for emergencies and that it was probably a bit odd that someone so attractive would want to talk to her. She’d only scratched the number down onto a napkin and handed it over, never expecting to hear from him again.

But she had!

He’d called. And the conversation had been full of awkward pauses and nervous giggles, but he’d phoned her.

So, yes, she was feeling quite elated by the time she turned back around to steal her brother away and head back home…

And the sight of him - along with five other, unknown children - brings her to a halt. The smile slips from her face.

“...Randall.” She said, slowly, watching as water dripped down from his hair. “Why are you all wet?”

Randall blinked owlishly at her. He sniffled, once - a master of emotional manipulation, already tugging on her heartstrings - and stepped forward, out of the line of unknown children.

“...It rained.” He said, softly, looking down at the ground as he said it.

“Rained?” Alice repeated, folding her arms over her chest and fixing him with a glare.

“It did!”

Another boy, one with dark hair and glasses, stepped forward and nodded his head so hard in agreement that his glasses nearly flew off of his face and onto the ground. He met Alice’s eye with such resolved certainty in his own expression that she would have burst out laughing if it hadn’t been so terrifying to see that Randall was drenched. Had he fallen in? Had these kids dragged him into the water? Why had she walked away from him?!

“Really.” She said, trying valiantly to keep her voice from wavering. “Then why is the ground dry?”

One of the boys, a gangly one with large ears, looked her in the eyes as he edged over to the pond, bent down, cupped his hands into the water… and then flung it down onto the ground, splattering it with water.

He dried his hands on his pants, then, and stood back up.

“It isn’t.” He said.

...Which, really, was a power move if Alice had ever seen one. But, she refused to be amused.

“Randall, do not lie to me. What’s actually happened?”

“Well…”

Randall cast a glance back at the boy with glasses, pressing his lips into a frown. The other boy only shrugged, looking completely _baffled_ that their plan hadn’t worked.

Alice cleared her throat, then spoke softly to him in Italian.

“ _Randall, did they push you in? You can tell me.”_

Randall’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. His wet hair whipped around his face.

“No! They…”

He cleared his throat, then answered back so that the other children couldn’t understand.

_“It was someone older. He’s been bullying everyone on the playground.”_

Alice’s eyes widened…and then narrowed, her lips pulling back into an aggravated sneer. This is what she gets for looking away - what sort of arsehole pushes around little kids?

“Do any of you know where he is?” Alice asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

They all shook their heads no.

And then the dam burst.

“But, he stole my kite!”

“He threw paint-filled balloons at us!”

“Balloons that he stole from me!”

“He pushed me off of the jungle gym.”

“He shoved me off of the swings and threw a balloon at me, too.”

“My da gave me that kite!”

“Okay, okay, stop!” Alice said, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender.

For a second, she’s not sure what to do. Force Randall to go home, maybe? But she can’t leave this lot to themselves. They all look so...pitiful, soaked to the bone and sniffling. All having been attacked by the same bully. What is it going to say to them if she just leaves?

And why are there never any adults around when she needs them?

“Well…” She said, slowly, making her decision. “If he’s still in the park, we’ll find him. And we’ll make him give you back your things.”

They all cheered. And for a moment, Alice was proud of herself.

Of course… now she had to _find_ whoever had done this.

“Come on. We’ll walk about and see if we can find him and your things.”

Alice felt a bit like a sheepdog, herding her group of nine-year-olds away from the pond and back toward the main part of the park, but at least she managed to learn all of their names on the way. Mostly from the way they shouted at each other, scheming, pushing, and shoving each other along.

Apparently, they’d all come to the conclusion that Alice was getting their revenge for all of them, and had started speculating how she’d do it or how they could help her do it. 

And honestly, she was starting to worry.

“What if we dug a pit?” Suggested Deirdre. “In the middle of the playground. We could cover it with leaves and he’ll fall right in and we won’t let him out until he promises to give our stuff back.”

“We should make one of those traps that you step into and then it pulls you up by your leg and you hang from a tree!” Philip countered.

“We should fill a bucket with spiders and dump it on him,” Ethan said, darkly.

Nine-year-olds could be terrifying. Who knew?

 

* * *

 

It must have taken them twenty minutes to circle back through the park and all without a glimpse of the supposed bully that had been terrorizing them. Everyone else seemed to have gone home… in fact, it was almost _eerie_ stepping through, with only their voices to carry and it was getting darker by the second.

“I don’t think anyone else is here, you lot,” Alice said, finally, when they were approaching the main part of the park, again. “He probably went home… I’m sorry about your things, but it doesn’t seem like there’s anything I can -”

SPLAT.

Alice jumped back as something hit the ground near her feet and exploded into a burst of colour. Blue splattered across the grass and flecked across her shoes. Her herd of nine-year-olds skittered back, as well, peering from out behind her and she felt more than just Randall’s hand grabbing at her shirt, holding onto her.

She nearly fell but caught herself at the last second, glaring ahead at the boy holding a pillowcase in one hand and an unlaunched balloon in the other. He had leaves in his hair. What had he been doing, hiding in a tree?

“You looking for me?” He asked, grinning rakishly. “Oh, are you here to put me in the corner and tell me I’ve been a bad lad?”

Alice rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

“I suppose if you had any decent parents, I wouldn’t have to be the one doing that.” Alice snapped back at him, feeling little fingers tightening on the fabric of her shirt. “What sort of low-life picks on nine-year-olds, anyway?”

The boy shrugged, tossing the balloon up into the air and catching it again.

“Had nothing else to do.” He said, still grinning.

Philip tapped her on the arm, whispering -

“Ask him if he has my kite.”

“Shh!”

Deirdre pulled him back away and Alice shrugged off all of the clinging-on-ers, taking a step forward.

“Will you just give them their stuff back? You’ve had your fun, but we’d all quite like to leave. Hand it over.”

He threw the balloon up again, catching it once more, and then tipped the pillowcase upside down. Instead of a bunch of balloons, a kite and Randall’s bag of oats tipped out onto the ground. He dropped the pillowcase down on top of it, and met her gaze with an increasingly impish grin.

“Only got one balloon left.” He said, holding it up so that she could see it. “Be a shame to waste it.”

And then he flung it at her.

Alice wasn’t sure what she was thinking. Maybe she hadn’t been thinking at all - but her hand shot up and she _caught_ the balloon out of the air, before it could splatter against her. And then, in the same instant, she hurled it back at him.

It splattered against his face, painting his surprised expression in pink. He spit out a mouthful of paint and then howled in rage, rubbing at his eyes to try and clear the paint away. Alice moved forward, quickly, snatching up the kite, the pillowcase, and the bag of oats…

And then, she kicked him in the shin. As hard as she could.

“And _that_ was for pushing my brother into a pond, you wanker.” She said, as venomously as she could manage.

The little gang burst out into cheers, and Deirdre even ran forward, wielding her flute case, and hit him in his other shin.

“That’s for throwing a balloon at me!”

More cheers rang out. Alice passed back the belongings to their respective owners - getting a very heartfelt thank you from Philip, a grunted noise of appreciation from Ethan, and a hug from her little brother. The bully, admitting defeat, scarpered off and left her with a rowdy group of nine-year-olds, shrieking in their victory.

Well, in her victory on their behalf, at least.

And, as she was trying to lead Randall away, she did hear someone say to him -

“You’ll be back, tomorrow, won’t you? We should see what else we can get your sister to throw at people.”

“Has anyone else got any enemies? We can make this a daily thing.” Thomas chimed in.

And Alice bit her tongue to keep from laughing. Of all the things to become friends over, she supposed this wasn’t the worst.

She’d start packing extra juice boxes, around. Because it didn’t seem like this was the last she was ever going to see of this lot.


End file.
